XVIII.

That glee which finds expression in raised eyebrows and long, low
whistling noises was upon Mr. Hoopdriver. For a space he forgot
the tears of the Young Lady in Grey. Here was a new game!--and a
real one. Mr. Hoopdriver as a Private Inquiry Agent, a Sherlock
Holmes in fact, keeping these two people 'under observation.' He
walked slowly back from the bridge until he was opposite the
Angel, and stood for ten minutes, perhaps, contemplating that
establishment and enjoying all the strange sensations of being
this wonderful, this mysterious and terrible thing. Everything
fell into place in his scheme. He had, of course, by a kind of
instinct, assumed the disguise of a cyclist, picked up the first
old crock he came across as a means of pursuit. 'No expense was
to be spared.'

Then he tried to understand what it was in particular that he was
observing. "My wife"--"HER stepmother!" Then he remembered her
swimming eyes. Abruptly came a wave of anger that surprised him,
washed away the detective superstructure, and left him plain Mr.
Hoopdriver. This man in brown, with his confident manner, and his
proffered half sovereign (damn him!) was up to no good, else why
should he object to being watched? He was married! She was not
his sister. He began to understand. A horrible suspicion of the
state of affairs came into Mr. Hoopdriver's head. Surely it had
not come to THAT. He was a detective!--he would find out. How was
it to be done? He began to submit sketches on approval to
himself. It required an effort before he could walk into the
Angel bar. "A lemonade and bitter, please," said Mr. Hoopdriver.

He cleared his throat. "Are Mr. and Mrs. Bowlong stopping here?"

"What, a gentleman and a young lady--on bicycles?"

"Fairly young--a married couple."

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"No," said the barmaid, a talkative person of ample dimensions.
"There's no married couples stopping here. But there's a Mr. and
Miss BEAUMONT." She spelt it for precision. "Sure you've got the
name right, young man?"

"Quite," said Mr. Hoopdriver.

"Beaumont there is, but no one of the name of-- What was the name
you gave?"

"Bowlong," said Mr. Hoopdriver.

"No, there ain't no Bowlong," said the barmaid, taking up a
glasscloth and a drying tumbler and beginning to polish the
latter. "First off, I thought you might be asking for Beaumont--
the names being similar. Were you expecting them on bicycles?"

And so they conversed at some length, Mr. Hoopdriver delighted to
find his horrible suspicion disposed of. The barmaid having
listened awhile at the staircase volunteered some particulars of
the young couple upstairs. Her modesty was much impressed by the
young lady's costume, so she intimated, and Mr. Hoopdriver
whispered the badinage natural to the occasion, at which she was
coquettishly shocked. "There'll be no knowing which is which, in
a year or two," said the barmaid. "And her manner too! She got
off her machine and give it 'im to stick up against the kerb, and
in she marched. 'I and my brother,' says she, 'want to stop here
to-night. My brother doesn't mind what kind of room 'e 'as, but I
want a room with a good view, if there's one to be got,' says
she. He comes hurrying in after and looks at her. 'I've settled
the rooms,' she says, and 'e says 'damn!' just like that. I can
fancy my brother letting me boss the show like that."